


It's Just That It's Delicate

by Chash



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-28
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-07-27 09:19:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7612522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chash/pseuds/Chash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The main reason Bellamy gets Lady Clarke's hand is marriage is that her father was a traitor and he's the bastard heir of an unpopular baron. But it might work out for him, after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Just That It's Delicate

Bellamy's new wife is sullen.

On the one hand, he'd prefer she wasn't. He knows it's a bad situation, but he's trying to make the best of it, and he'd like it if she was too. But on the other, he can't convince himself that she's wrong, or that he'd be doing any better in her shoes. In her shoes, he'd probably be trying to actually fight him, to get away.

This is what Bellamy knows about his new wife: her father was a traitor, her mother turned him in, hoping for good treatment from the king, and instead the entire family was disgraced. Her father was killed, her mother was imprisoned, and Lady Clarke was taken by King Thelonious to be given like a prize to--him. The bastard son of an unimportant baron who died without any better heirs.

Yes, in her place, he'd be furious. He'd heard she was engaged to the prince, before everything happened.

He hadn't had any particular plans about marriage for himself. Before he'd become Baron of Blaketon, he hadn't even been sure he would marry. He went from too few prospects to too many, and there was a kind of awful relief to the king taking the choice out of his hands. He doesn't like the man, from what he's seen, and he doesn't like being told what to do. But he doesn't know the first thing about choosing a proper wife, or even an improper one.

So he has Lady Clarke.

The marriage ceremony was awkward. Despite his best effort, Bellamy's estate is still filled with people he doesn't know or trust, and they don't know or trust him either. His sister helped the lady get ready, and she wasn't sure what to make of her, from the little Bellamy has heard. The priest was dull, the vows felt like lies in his mouth, and the kiss was the most awkward one of his life. It's official, but it feels as if it shouldn't be.

Now they're alone, and his wife has her arms crossed over her chest as she sizes him up. He doesn't know exactly what she sees, but he still feels like a peasant dressed up in clothes that don't belong to him. He's sure someone is going to realize he shouldn't be here, sooner or later. They're going to notice he's been reducing taxes and improving the lives of his people, and they'll stop him because that's not what lords do.

He's about to try to speak when she says, "All right," as if responding to a statement he never made, and begins to get undressed.

"All right what?" he asks, baffled.

"It's our wedding night. Let's get it over with. I've had a long day, my lord, and I'd like to go to sleep sooner rather than later. I'm sure you understand."

He doesn't choke, but it's difficult. She's gotten the ties on the back of her dress, and she shrugs it off, leaving her in a corset and white slip, and it's more than he was expecting, so quickly. Lady Clarke is lovely in a way he'd been carefully not thinking about, in a way he didn't think he'd need to think about. His idea of marriage includes sex as a matter of course--he has friends who got married only because sneaking around was too much work. But his idea of marriage includes a great deal less ceremony. His idea of marriage includes meeting your bride before the wedding.

"What's the rush?" he asks, crossing his own arms as she unlaces her corset.

Her fingers fumble and she glares at him. "What?"

"You're tired. Go to sleep."

Her glare deepens, which makes him feel a little better. Angry is better than sullen. Angry gives him an idea of what she's like. 

"I know what's expected of me," she says.

"Clearly you don't." He runs his hand through his hair, grateful that she's stopped taking her clothes off. He assumes she'll want to be undressed at some point, but--the keep is huge. There's a bed she can have to herself, to sleep how she likes. "My lady, I sure you're aware I'm a trumped-up commoner. I don't doubt how awful this is for you. I have no interest in making it worse." He considers, but it seems safe enough to add, "I don't know how the nobility does it, but I prefer to have willing partners in my bed."

"I'm willing," she says, stubborn, and Bellamy knows it's true, in the most literal sense. She's offering.

"Well, I'm not," he says. "I'm too exhausted. If you'd like to petition the king to nullify the marriage because I didn't perform my duties on the wedding night, I won't stop you."

She's about his sister's age, he knows, and she feels younger dressed only in her white slip. It's as if she's taken off armor. 

Maybe he's not what she expected either.

"I think the king would be happy if we died childless and unhappy," she finally says. It feels like a test; maybe she thinks he didn't know. "The sooner the better."

"I'm doing my best," he mutters. "Go to sleep, my lady. There's a room for you through the door. Your things should already be there."

"Don't tell me you're bringing in a mistress _tonight_ ," she says, but she sounds more impressed than upset by the prospect. As if she respects his efficiency.

"No. Sorry to disappoint you." He starts undressing himself, mostly because he figures it might scare her off. And his wedding clothes are itchy. "No mistresses tonight. If you really want me to get one, I can try. I don't really know how it works. But if you want to discuss it in the morning, we can." She raises her eyebrows as he shrugs off his shirt and goes for the fastenings on his trousers, but doesn't make to leave. "We're married now," he points out. "I assume we'll have plenty of time to figure out how to live with it later. For now, I'm tired."

She looks at him for another moment, face hard, but then she nods. "Looking forward to it," she says, and goes into her own room.

He flops onto the bed and kicks his trousers off, one arm over his face. She seems--spirited. She's probably the kind of woman he'd like, in different circumstances. If they'd gotten a chance to meet however nobles are supposed to meet each other. At court. On a ride.

But she was planning to marry the prince, and got him instead. He can't blame her for her hostility.

"Tomorrow," he tells himself.

They'll have plenty of time to get used to each other.

*

It takes Clarke a minute to figure out where she is when she wakes up. The light is coming from the wrong direction, and the bed smells wrong, clean and a little musty, like it's not used often but someone did their best.

Somehow, that's what reminds her: she's in Blaketon Keep, married to Lord Bellamy. 

The whole thing felt like a cruel trick as it was happening, everything she wanted, but twisted and wrong. She'd hoped to not marry Wells, whom she adores, but not as a husband. They'd been in agreement on that, but their parents weren't. Their parents thought it was perfect, and they'd tried, but--it wasn't.

Lord Bellamy isn't Wells, but he's also not whom she would have chosen. 

Or maybe she would. She shouldn't be premature. Their first private interaction wasn't what she expected. He seemed honest, which she doesn't expect from anyone, and not particularly excited about the match himself. That part was trickier. Clarke's rank is more than he could have hoped for, as the by-blow of an already out-of-favor baron. And she didn't know what he'd think of that, if he'd be wise enough to the ways of court to realize it was a punishment for her, and not a reward for him. Marrying her off to Lord Bellamy is the last nail in the coffin of her family's line; King Thelonious will divvy up the lands that belonged to her father's family among men more loyal to him, and Clarke will languish out here with--

And that's the question, isn't it? Who is Clarke's husband?

His sister spoke well of him, in their short interactions. The relation is on their mother's side, while Lord Bellamy's title is on his father's, so Octavia is no lady and says she has no wish to be, and her brother has no wish to make her one. So perhaps he has little interest in social climbing.

He didn't take her to bed, refused even, and seemed to indicate he'd be happy getting whatever pleasure he sought elsewhere. She doesn't know what to make of that yet either. Maybe he doesn't like women at all. Or maybe he does prefer more willing partners. Marriage is different for commoners, she knows; plenty don't bother getting married at all until a child is conceived, and even then, it depends on how much the families care. Clarke has been told to protect her virtue and honor her husband since she was born; she's done the first--technically--even while not being sold on the second. 

There's only one way to find out if her husband is worth honoring, she supposes. She rings the bell by her bed, and her own attendant, Harper, comes in with an unfamiliar woman who must be in Lord Bellamy's employ. 

"This is Monroe," says Harper. The girl is around Clarke's age, probably a year or two younger, and dressed in trousers, not skirts. It makes her even more curious about her new husband, not only that he allows a servant to present herself in such a way, but that he'd send her to Clarke. "She'll be helping us."

"A pleasure, my lady," Monroe says, with a bob that doesn't quite count as a proper curtsy, but was clearly trying. Clarke has to smile. "I look forward to serving you."

Harper nods, like she'd coached Monroe on this, and it puts her in a good mood as they dress her for the day.

The nerves set in as they take her down to the dining room for breakfast. Talking to Lord Bellamy last night had felt--well, she'd been prepared for it. She'd thought she knew what to expect, and he'd thrown her. He might keep throwing her, or it might have been a fluke.

He's not at the table when she arrives, and it's not exactly a relief. She'd like to get it over with, instead of anticipating seeing him.

"Bellamy must be running late," Monroe says, and Clarke makes a note of that. His staff calls him by his first name, not _my lord_. "No surprise there. I'll see if I can find him." She bobs again and takes her leave, and Clarke regards Harper.

"How does it seem?" she asks. "The household."

Harper shrugs. She's been serving Clarke since they were children; they aren't friends, because it's impossible for any kind of true friendship to exist between Clarke and those in her service. Harper can never truly be honest with her, and they both know it.

But they're as close as they can come, in their circumstances.

"It's new," she says, thoughtful. "I mean, he's only been the baron for a few months, and they're all still getting used to each other. Plenty of the old baron's staff don't like the way he does things, which isn't a surprise. He wasn't raised to this, and from what I've heard from Monroe, he hated his father for the time he knew him." She clucks her tongue. "I believe some of his advisers thought he'd be pliable, and he's not." 

"Interesting."

Harper shoots her a sly smile. "I can think of worse husbands for you."

"It's not a bad start," Clarke admits. "I can think of worse husbands for me too."

*

"She's waiting," Monroe says, smug. "She's probably thinking bad things about you."

"I bet I could have you flayed," Bellamy mutters. He checks his hair in the mirror, tries to make it a little less chaotic. "That's something lords to do disrespectful servants."

"She already saw you yesterday. This isn't your first impression."

"I don't want to make it worse."

"Her servants like her," Monroe says. "That doesn't always happen."

"True." He huffs. "Why do I have a wife? I didn't want a wife."

"You're supposed to have heirs. Legal ones. The illegal ones are a total pain."

"Flayed," he says. "Come on."

Lady Clarke is waiting for him, but she's found the book he left on the cabinet the other day and is reading it, looking interested. She's as lovely by the light of morning as she was in the afternoon and evening, hair falling in pale gold waves over her shoulders, chin tilted to show the pale length of her neck. It's the kind of beauty he doesn't associate with real people; she's too clean and too soft. But she seems to be real too, somehow.

His wife.

"Good morning," he says, and she jumps a little. "Sorry, I didn't mean to surprise you."

"Not at all," she stands and curtsies, which is weird. Is that really what noble women are supposed to do to their husbands, or does she just think she should? He has no idea. "Good morning, Lord Bellamy."

"My lady," he says. He thinks it over, but admits, "I don't really know what I'm supposed to do, in terms of polite company here. If proper etiquette is something you care about, I'm afraid you'll have to instruct me. But I'll do my best."

He thinks she looks a little amused. "You go to your seat, wait for me to sit, and then sit yourself. Usually you would pull my chair out for me, but since I arrived before you--"

Her tone is teasing, so he doesn't take it as a genuine rebuke. "You seem to have managed it on your own," he says. "For all they're very heavy chairs."

"Very," she agrees. 

He takes his place at his own chair and raises his eyebrows at her; she sits with easy grace, and he does as well. "Did you sleep well?"

"Well enough," she says, making him frown.

"Was there a problem with the bed? The room? It doesn't get used that often, but it was supposed to be clean--" She's watching him, cool, and he realizes there's probably a simpler explanation with a flush. "Or you just got married to a stranger and spent the night in a new place. I couldn't sleep for the first week," he admits. "I thought it had to be a trick."

"A trick?"

"No one was going to make me their heir."

"You're far too honest to be a baron," she says, surprising him. Bellamy doesn't think of himself as particularly honest, but lying to her seems stupid. She knows he's a bastard, she knows he was only elevated to his position last year, and she knows as well as he does this marriage was set up because the king didn't want to deal with either of them.

He's probably hoping they'll murder each other, and Bellamy doesn't want to prove him right.

"I'm not telling you anything you don't know," he says, and she hums her agreement. "I don't know why I'd lie to you anyway," he continues. "If I'm going to live with you, I might as well be honest. I'm still learning how to run an estate. I don't know what you do, exactly. Manage the household? I have so much _time_ as a baron, it's unbelievable. I've never had so many books, and so much time to read them."

"What did you do before your father came for you?" 

"My mother was a seamstress. I used to help her at night and pick up whatever other work I could during the day, once my sister was old enough to be on her own. I was working as a hostler when the baron realized he was dying without an heir." He considers, but there's no reason not to say, "That's why the king hates me. He thought he'd get the estate."

"It's not you," says the lady, sounding easy. "He hates everyone."

"Good for him." He takes a sip of tea. "He hates you because your father was a traitor?"

Her face doesn't change. "That is what I'm told."

"So, I don't think we were ever introduced," he finally says.

"We were."

"Those were formal introductions. I could barely hear your name through all the titles. I'm Bellamy."

A smile tugs at her lips again. "Clarke."

"And can I call you that, or do you prefer titles?"

"Clarke is fine," she says. "Bellamy," she adds, like she's trying it out. "You don't like being a baron."

It's an interesting question. "It's an improvement. I know it is. I'm better off, and so is my sister. My best friend Miller is my head hostler now, and I hired some of my other friends. I've made a lot of lives better, my own included. But--I have no idea what to do with you, honestly."

"With me?"

"You're a lady," he says. "I assume you had aspirations for your future that didn't involve anything like this."

"I knew I'd be married to someone." He can almost see her thinking. "I didn't want it to be Wells, so--in some ways, you're an improvement."

"You didn't?"

"I don't think I'd make a very good princess," she says. "And I don't know how I'd put up with the king so often. It was hard enough just being friends with the prince."

He looks at her for a minute, and finally admits, "I can't tell if you're just trying to make me feel better."

"No," she says, without hesitation. She smiles again. "I'm trying out the honesty thing. It seems to be working for you."

"Apparently," he says, and tries a smile of his own.

It's working for her, after all.

*

Bellamy is--a commoner. Not that Clarke has met a lot of commoners, but it's obvious that he's still uncomfortable in his own home, still doesn't know how to act. He relaxes around his younger servants, jokes around with them like friends, but as soon as he starts feeling like he needs to be a lord, discomfort sets in. And he can't quite decide if he needs to be one around her or not, which is a little bit funny. He clearly wants to do right by her, but he also doesn't seem to have any idea what right by her entails.

She'd tell him, except she's not sure either, and it's so much more fun to watch him trying to figure it out.

"So, uh, this the keep," he says, gesturing to the hall. It's just the two of them now; he did the introduction to the servants in the kitchen after breakfast, but didn't ask anyone to join them.

"Impressive," she says, dry, and his composure dissolves into a sheepish smile.

"This is my first time doing the tour. Cut me some slack."

"Sorry. It's a very nice keep. Good job."

"I haven't even gotten going yet."

"I'm being encouraging."

"Great." But he's relaxing again, thinking of her as a person instead of a noble. "I like this urn, it's interesting."

"Does it have something in it?"

"It's an _urn_ ," he says. "I don't want to look in there. I'm going to inhale some relative's ashes and choke to death."

"Maybe there's gold in there. A family treasure."

"I'll never know. Because it's an urn. This portrait is really weird," he adds, gesturing. "What's he doing?"

Clarke stops to really consider the painting. "Well," she says, slow. "He's posing with someone's severed head."

"Yeah, but why are his fingers in the head's mouth?" Bellamy asks. "Is that symbolism? I was reading a book about what symbols are common in paintings of nobility and there wasn't anything about having your fingers in a severed head's mouth."

Clarke bites back on an actual _giggle_. "That's not a symbol I'm familiar with, no."

"Also, how long do you think he was posing like that? It takes a while to have a portrait done. The baron made me sit for one and it took hours. Maybe he wasn't really holding the head. Maybe he just had his fingers in--" She can see him searching for a plausible alternative. "A really big apple."

That's about where she loses it, and it's worth it for the delight on his face when she laughs. He's--good, she thinks. He's trying, and that's nice. He wants to be good to her.

"Or a small pumpkin," he adds.

"You've really thought about this."

"It's really weird."

"I assume it's to show--dominance, maybe?" she offers. "He killed him and now he's--"

"Don't even finish that sentence," he says. "I don't want to know. I'm going to assume it's a nobility thing."

"Every time I get a severed head, I put my fingers in its mouth," Clarke says, serious, and he laughs now.

"Every time?"

"So far."

He considers. "And how many times is that?"

"None, so far."

"So far," he agrees. "If I get any, I'll let you know if I can't keep my fingers out of their mouths." He pauses. "There are more portraits on the second floor. They're all weird."

"In my experience, almost all portraits are weird," she says. "Lead the way."

Once his tour becomes less showing her the keep and more telling her about the keep, Bellamy is completely in his element. It's easy for Clarke to watch him apart from herself too, some part of her mind evaluating him as--well, as a baron. A man with influence and responsibility. 

She's not convinced he'll ever be a _conventional_ noble. But she thinks he could be a beloved one.

"Honestly, I don't even know what this room is for," he admits on the third floor. "I tried to sit in here when the baron was alive and he said it was beneath me, but it looks the same as all the other rooms in the keep, so--"

Clarke smiles and leans into the doorway next to him. She can feel the warmth of his body as she brushes up against him, and that's nice too. 

Her future looks better by the second.

"That's where you'd entertain--yourself."

"Uh," he says, eyebrows shooting up. "I guess that might be beneath me, but I didn't think I needed a special room for it."

It takes Clarke a second to figure out what he means, and she feels herself blush dark red. "I meant _commoners_."

"Oh. That makes a lot more sense, yeah. But I wouldn't put anything past noble etiquette."

"I don't know any rules about--that," she says, awkward. It feels like the kind of thing she should be able to talk about with him openly. He is her husband, after all. She assumes it's going to come up again. At some point, he'll want her to perform her duties, instead of--

Instead of _entertaining himself_.

"But the idea is that the grander drawing rooms are too fine for the commoners," she continues, not thinking about it. Her mother gave her a rundown of what her wedding night would be like, and with her own experiences with women, she thinks it could be very enjoyable, but she never even discussed these things with _Wells_. Bellamy is a stranger.

A handsome stranger she's finding she likes, but still a stranger.

"Like I said, I can't tell the difference," he says, with a shrug. If he's noticed her discomfort, he apparently has no interest in commenting on it. "It's all stupidly fancy and I want to sell off a bunch of the stuff to make life better for my people. But I'm pretty sure that counts as treason."

"If not treason, at least something you could be imprisoned for."

"I think the baron assumed I'd be imprisoned within a few months of his death. I'm trying to make it another year, just to show him. Oh, I love the dog in this painting. It's really, really angry it's in the painting."

Clarke dutifully inspects the dog in the painting--one of those white puffs of dog favored by ladies, which does look like it's planning to try to rip out the artist's throat at the first opportunity--but her mind is elsewhere.

"You always call him the baron," she observes.

"He was."

"He was your father."

"He was the baron for a lot longer than he was my father. At least to me."

"To you?"

"My mother knew. His name is on my birth papers. He didn't have an heir, and she knew he needed one, so she told him, made sure it was--he was still married to the baroness back then, so it couldn't be _legal_. But he wanted me as a backup plan. The baroness died childless and he kept trying to find--a better heir. Once he got sick, he gave up and took me. As a baron, not as a father." 

"And your mother never said anything?"

"No." She can see his jaw working. "You want to know the worst part?"

"Yes."

She says it so quickly that he cracks a smile. She likes making him smile. "I'm glad my shitty childhood is so entertaining," he says, dry, but sobers almost at once. "He was paying my mother to keep her mouth shut. I found out after my mother died, it was in her papers. Enough money--I could have used it. If she'd saved it, we could have had meat more than once a week, a better house. I could have done so much with the money, if she told us, but she just spent it on--drink and jewelry, I'm pretty sure. Things for herself, instead of for the family. She spent my whole life telling me about the responsibility I had, to work hard and take care of my sister, and she--" He shakes his head, and Clarke doesn't know what to say for a minute. She's getting an idea of who she is, and as much as she thinks it's a good person to be, she doesn't like how he became this way.

"So, commoners can be assholes too," she finally says, and is rewarded with a sharp bark of laughter that starts a spark flickering in the pit of her stomach. She said the right thing, and that means a lot.

"Everyone can be an asshole. Want to go to the stables? I like the stables."

"Because you were a hostler?"

"Because I know how to act in the stables," he says. He pauses, but offers his arm. "Come on."

She takes it, and gently corrects him so he's in the correct position. "If you're going to do it, you might as well do it right," she says, when he raises his eyebrows.

"Maybe I just won't do it," he says, but there's no heat in it.

"Those are your two options."

It's not until they're walking that he says, "Thanks," soft, and Clarke just smiles and squeezes his arm.

*

"So, you like her," Miller says.

It's been four days since the wedding and Clarke is riding for the first time, testing out one of the mares to see how she likes her. Her own horse was left behind, but apparently his wife is an accomplished rider.

Bellamy's first time on a horse was a disaster; he's much better at caring for them than he is riding them still. Maybe she can help him with that too.

"I'm doing my best," he says, and of course Miller sees right through him. He's not sure why he even _tried_ , except that he's still waiting for the other shoe to drop. She should be miserable. Even if she truly didn't want to marry the prince, he's--

Fine, honestly. So far, he feels like he's doing a pretty good job. But every now and then he'll forget the right thing to say, or won't know something, and he's sure her patience with that will run out. She couldn't take him out in public. He'd use the wrong fork and embarrass her.

For now, she likes him, but he can't imagine it will last. So he doesn't want to get too carried away.

"She's not bad, for a noble," Miller says, which is better than actually calling him out. "Knows her way around a horse. Doesn't seem to hate you."

"Not yet. But it's only been a few days. Give her time."

"I do hate you more the longer I know you," Miller agrees, and Bellamy elbows him. "Seriously. She was _smiling_ at you the first time I met her, and you make a shitty first impression."

"Well, we know nobles are dicks," he points out. "So she's probably used to it. And at least I'm not executing her father for being a traitor or anything. She's probably pretty unhappy with the world right now. I'm not part of that world, so--"

"Yeah, I can see how you'd look good after that." He watches her, quiet, for a minute. "You're not going to do any better, so don't screw this up."

"I know," he says, and he really does. She knows the things he doesn't, about etiquette and politics, and she could help him navigate being a baron. She knows the king, and he doesn't think he'll ever be on the man's good side, but he thinks she could help him stay alive and take care of his people.

She's lovely, and she seems to think he's at least a little bit funny. Maybe even charming. He's never had trouble winning female--or male--affection, but he also doesn't try very hard to keep it. He'd had more important things to do than find a wife, or even many bedfellows. He had jobs to do and his sister to feed.

Clarke dismounts, flushed with pleasure, and beams at him with such force that he feels it almost as a physical blow. "You do have good horses," she says. "She's wonderful."

"Feel free to ride her as much as you'd like."

"You should give me a tour of the grounds tomorrow," she says, taking his arm when he doesn't offer it on his own. "I'm familiar enough with the keep by now."

"You'd be better off going alone. You're a much better rider than I am," he tells her.

"And if you don't practice, I always will be."

Miller snorts, and Clarke grins at him. She'd been a little awkward with him at first, since Bellamy introduced him as both a hostler and a friend, but apparently all she needed to relax her was to watch the two of them needling each other for a minute. Bellamy knows he's part of a different class than Miller now, but it's not like they're going to let that stop them being assholes to each other. 

"Thank you for your help," Clarke tells Miller, a little too formal, but he knows thanking staff at all is new for her, so he can't help appreciating it. She's putting in the effort.

"Come back any time. Ideally without Bellamy," he adds, and Bellamy puts him in a headlock.

It's not until dinner that she asks, "Where's your sister?"

"Back home." She frowns, and he doesn't make her ask. He'd been expecting the question. "She hates it here."

"So do you."

"Not like she does. She visits sometimes, but--mostly she'd rather I burned the keep to the ground and tried to overthrow the monarchy. Not--" he adds quickly, when she winces. "I'm not going to."

"It's hard to burn a keep to the ground," she says, but she's not looking at him. "That's why they're made of stone."

He takes a breath. "Can I ask what your father actually did?"

"He committed treason," she says.

"What kind of treason?"

When she looks at him, he feels transparent, like he's made of glass and she can see inside him, but _he_ can't see. He has no idea at all what his wife sees when she looks at him. He'd like to think it's something good. 

He thinks he could be good for her.

"Some of our people were getting sick," she says. "Very sick, and more than should have been. My mother and I are both trained in some medicine, and we helped him investigate. He found that something had happened to the food supplies, and when he looked into it further, he found it was the king's doing. He was understandably concerned. And the king was--" She shrugs. "Opposing what the king does is treason."

"The king's doing? What the fuck did he do?"

"I didn't get that much information from my father. He was trying to keep me safe. Which I suppose he did, because I'm alive and well."

"Did your mother really turn him in?"

"She did."

"So you still don't know?" he asks. "What the king was doing."

"No," she says. "But I'd recognize it if it happened again. The problem was with the grain crop, so--we can be careful."

"And if we find a problem, we get killed as traitors," he grumbles. She winces, and he feels guilty. "I still want to know. I want to keep my people safe. But--that's not a good position to be in. Worrying that your king might kill you."

"I have my theories," she says. He can't fault her for seeming hesitant; this got her father killed. But his worry about his people--his worry about _her_ \--must be obvious, because it's only a second before she nods. They're seating on opposite ends of the long dining table, but she comes over to sit next to him, sketching out something on the table with her fingers. "My father was very popular, and our people had been doing well. I don't think he had any interest in rebellion, but--if he had, he might have had support."

"Great. So, if I'm a good baron--"

"Well, Thelonious won't live forever," she says. "Wells will be a good ruler."

He looks at her, sees the weariness in her face, wonders how long this has been a burden for her. The treason was around when he became baron, but she would have known about this before. Her father was waiting for trial for a while. He hadn't paid much attention, busy with his own new position, but--she's probably felt alone ever since her mother turned her father in. Even if she trusts Wells, she couldn't tell him this.

"We'll make sure they're safe," he tells her. "I'm not going to get any of us killed. You and myself included." Impulsively, he reaches over and squeezes her hand, and to his relief, it makes her smile.

"No," she agrees. "I don't think you will."

*

Clarke is trying to figure out who Bellamy's lover is.

Part of her hates that it bothers her at all; Bellamy has proved himself to be a good ally and partner, a better husband that she ever dreamed of, aside from Wells. And Wells had the not insignificant problem that when she kissed him, it felt like she was kissing--well, she doesn't have any siblings, but she thinks it would have been like that. She and Wells have known each other since they were children and loved each other that long, but never in the right way for her, and only briefly for Wells.

She'd never expected to have a husband she both liked and desired, but here she is, and he shows no sign of returning such feelings. He likes her, to be sure, seems to value her, is grateful for her help with duties and household affairs. She's teaching him about riding, and he's been sharing his favorite books.

But he's made no mention of her sharing his bed, and always says goodnight before he goes into his own chambers, leaves her with no indication he has any interest in her following him. It shouldn't bother her, because it's such a _minor_ thing. If she's happy, why should she care if he desires her? She can take care of herself, or find lovers of her own. He wouldn't grudge her such company, she's sure.

It's just that she wants _him_ , and she can't stop wondering what he wants. How she could become someone he wants too.

He did say he preferred willing bedfellows, and she's sure he has no shortage of them. Her first guesses--Gina from the kitchens and Raven from the smithy--turned out to be wrong by virtue of already being involved with each other. Bellamy had told her this openly but with a slight edge of mistrust when she'd tried to subtly pry into his feelings for the women, and his protective acceptance of something many frowned on only endeared him to her further.

"Not for years," he said, just as easily, when she'd asked if he and Miller were ever involved. "He's got someone in the town, Monty. You'll like Monty."

And then, two weeks after their marriage, Octavia comes to visit Clarke while Bellamy is attending to business on one of the farms, and it feels like the perfect opportunity to find out more about her husband.

Unfortunately, for all Bellamy has been completely oblivious to Clarke's prodding, his sister sees through her in seconds.

"Is he being an idiot?" she asks, and Clarke bristles a little, offended on his behalf.

"No, of course not."

She says it so quickly that Octavia's eyebrows shoot up, just like Bellamy's would. It's strange, recognizing his quirks in someone else. "He must have been," she wheedles. "Not in a bad way. It's part of his charm. But he's kind of an idiot about a lot of things."

"I think I'm the one being stupid," Clarke admits. "He hasn't done anything wrong."

Even without her having said what she's worrying about, Octavia seems to have figured it out. Which is a relief, because she wouldn't even know how to just _ask_. Noble women aren't supposed to enjoy the marital bed, from what little she's heard. It's supposed to be Bellamy's pleasure and her obligation, and she doesn't know how to deal with the reverse.

"Look, Bell doesn't know what to do with you either, okay?" she says. "But he's the most loyal person I've ever met. He's not going into town to find someone else to fuck every night. He's sleeping alone and probably just assumes you want to too. You're a _noble_. Nobles don't marry people like us."

Clarke blinks. "He's a noble too."

"Not really. Not like--" She huffs. "I think he still thinks someone's going to come along and tell him it's not real, you know? That he doesn't get this. And he's crazy about you, it's so obvious. Every time I see him he's grinning and telling me about something amazing you did. He can't shut up about you."

Something curls in Clarke's stomach, warm and golden. "Oh."

"Yeah. Like I said, he's an idiot, but he's never--you're his wife. He'd never be unfaithful, even if he hated you. Which, again, he doesn't. Just talk to him. Don't be subtle, it doesn't work." For the first time, she looks unsure. "You like him, right? You're not, just--weird noble shit about fidelity or something?"

"No," she says. "He's--I'm very fond of him."

"Good. That's why I wanted to see you again. To make sure."

"And you're sure?"

Octavia smiles. "Oh yeah. No question."

Bellamy gets back late, and Clarke tries to believe that Octavia is right. It's easy to think, now that someone else has said it, that he's not really the type to take a lover. 

He might be an idiot, but the good kind. The honorable kind.

It only takes a few minutes for her to make up her mind. Their bedchambers are connected, and they could have been seeing each other every night. The servants probably assume they have been. 

They should be.

She draws her robe around her and pads down the corridor, pushing his door open. He's at the basin, stripped to the waist, a towel over his shoulders. He looks soft and inviting, and the smile he gives her that turns quickly into concern just makes him more so.

"Hey, everything okay? O didn't do anything, did she?"

"No. I just wanted to see you."

He frowns at that, and she smiles. "I'm not very exciting," he says. "You'd be better off getting some sleep."

The best kind of idiot.

"How was your trip?" she asks, leaving the doorway and coming into his room, making a deliberate statement.

"Fine. Boring. But I at least know a little about farming, so I felt like I was helping. Way better than trying to talk about politics." He wets his lips, looking around like he's expecting someone else to show up. "Seriously, did something happen?"

"I tried to ask your sister if you had a lover. Or--I tried not to just _ask_ her, but she figured it out anyway."

"You could have asked me. I don't."

"I was trying to. You don't pick up on it as well."

"Do you want me to?" he asks. He sounds genuinely confused. "You can even if I don't, you don't--"

"Bellamy," she says, and he startles a little when he realizes she's been walking toward him while he was pointedly not looking at her. "I really don't want to take any lovers. Do you?"

"No," he breathes.

Her hands are only a little shaky when she tugs on the ends of the towel around his neck, drawing him to her. He comes willingly; he seems unable to take his eyes off her. That helps.

"Good," she says, and pushes up on her toes so she can kiss him.

He didn't shave when he washed his face, so his skin is rough with stubble, his mouth chapped from travel. She only has a second to think about those small details before his hands are on her waist and he's kissing her back, hungry and almost desperate, like he thinks he might not get another chance. Clarke slides her hand into his damp hair, tugging him only enough to temper the kiss, slow it. She wants to savor him.

He's panting a little when he pulls away, breathless, his eyes roving over her as if he's still worried she might have somehow done this by accident.

"I'm very willing," she tells him, letting the fingers of her left hand trail up his chest. He's very _solid_ ; only ever having touched women like this before, Clarke isn't used to the feeling of firm muscle instead of soft curves. "Impatient, even."

His smile takes a second, and it's unsteady when it comes, but in the best way. This time, the kiss is slow, soft, and warm, and she melts into his chest, relief flooding through her.

She's only dimly aware of him guiding her to his bed, mostly because she's focusing on the press of his body and the slide of his tongue against hers. But he lifts her a little, deposits her on his soft sheets, and then stares for a minute, awed.

"You're sure?" he asks. 

She tugs his wrist, and he comes without resistance, kissing her jaw and down her neck.

"You could still say it," he murmurs.

"Please," she says, and his grin is the best thing she's ever seen.

"If you insist."

*

Bellamy has been trying very hard to not think about touching his wife, but he must not have been doing a very good job, because now that he can, he finds he already knows what he wants to do. His mouth finds her neck, making her moan, and his fingers fumble at the tie on her robe.

He's never touched himself so much while also pretending to not be thinking of someone. But she's here, in his bed, tugging him closer with no apparently hesitance or shyness, and he still can't quite believe it.

"Have you done this before?" he asks her. He'd assume she had, if she wasn't a noble, but there's a value on virginity for noble women.

"Not _this_ ," she says, and gasps when his hand finds her breast. He's distracted for a minute with that himself; he'd been sure they'd be perfect, but the reality is still even better than he'd dreamed.

"Then what?" he asks, kissing down her chest.

"My mother told me I had to keep myself untouched by men. For my husband. She never mentioned women, so I assumed they weren't a problem."

He laughs and pushes the robe open, thrills when she sits up to help him take it off her. She's bare underneath and there's still no hesitation from her.

"I hope you didn't tell your mother that," he teases.

She grins. "I thought she'd rather not know."

"How considerate of you." He grazes his teeth against the soft skin at the swell of her breast, making her gasp. "So, you know what you like?"

"What I like?"

He takes her nipple into his mouth, swirls his tongue around it. Her fingers tangle in his hair and she arches against him, and he can't believe he thought he was _tired_ when he got back. He's never been more awake in his life.

"Fuck, Bellamy," she says, and he sucks her gently before pulling off.

"Where do you like being touched? What do you like doing?"

She laughs, shaky. "I like you," she says. "Just keep going."

The first time Bellamy had sex, he was fifteen, and it was with his friend Roma. They'd decided to try it out of basic curiosity, and while he'd touched her breasts a little and they'd kissed, he hadn't really had a clue what he was doing, so he'd just shoved his dick into her without much preparation, and it hasn't been very good for either of them. The next time, he'd had a more experienced partner, who told him exactly what she liked, and he'd felt better.

He thinks he's pretty good at it by now, but he wants this to be _perfect_. He wants her to never want anyone else ever again. 

"Just tell me if I should stop," he says, and puts his mouth back on her, sucking a mark into the pale skin of her breast. He wants to see the reality of his mouth there, to know that he's the one who gets to touch her like this.

As if he could take another lover, with her smiling at him every day.

To his surprise, she takes his hand and guides it between her legs, apparently impatient. He grins and nips her breast, settling two fingers against her, in the spot he knows she wants. She gasps at the first stroke, hips pushing back into him.

"Do you do this for yourself?" he asks, moving back up so he can kiss her jaw again.

She twists to catch his mouth, wet and hot. "Only because you weren't doing it for me."

"Sorry," he says, without contrition. "I'll do better."

Before she can respond, he shifts his hand, slides two fingers inside her. She's so wet he can't help grinding his hips against the bed, desperate to be inside her himself, to show her how good that can feel.

"Fuck," she says again.

"I didn't think you'd curse so much," he says.

"I didn't know you'd feel so good," she says. "I thought I knew, but-- _fuck_."

"Yeah," he agrees. "That was the plan."

He pulls his fingers out, but just long enough that he can get his mouth on her, working the same spot with his tongue that he'd been using his hands on earlier. With his fingers inside her too, it doesn't take long, Clarke gasping out his name as she tightens around him.

He pulls back when it's over, feeling smug, and settles in next to Clarke while she regains her breath. She curls into him and he wraps her up, breathing in the sweet scent of her hair. If she doesn't like this, it's going to break his heart. He never wants her to leave his bed.

"That wasn't what I was expecting," she says, and when he flinched, she presses a kiss to his shoulder. "I meant--I didn't think it would be your fingers inside me."

"I thought we'd build to that," he says. "You'd be more relaxed if you already--"

She laughs, kisses up his jaw. "I've never been more relaxed in my life." Her hand strays down to the fastening on his trousers. "Do you want to?"

He's never wanted anything more in his life than her, but he thinks he's got her. The feeling makes him dizzy. "We can wait," he says, and then her hand is sliding down to feel the length of him. Even though cloth, it makes him groan.

"Or we could not wait," she points out, and that's enough of an invitation for him.

*

As with her first morning in Blaketon Keep, it takes Clarke a minute to remember where she is when she wakes up. It's easier, given she's on Bellamy's chest, one of his arms wrapped around her, his breathing deep and even beneath her. Her body still feels half asleep, warm and heavy with contentment, and she'd be tempted to try to go back to sleep, except for needing the chamber pot.

She manages to get up without waking him, but getting out of bed wakes her up enough she doesn't think she can sleep again. She crawls back into the bed, smiling when he pulls her back in instinctively. 

Since Clarke was small, people told her she would marry well, but marrying well meant something different to her. It was always going to be the most politically advantageous match, and she'd spent years watching older, unmarried men with good fortunes, wondering if she'd be sold off to them at the king's command, if he needed to use her for that.

She traces her fingers up Bellamy's side, watching his face as he sleeps.He looks younger, less worried, his black hair falling over his brow, his mouth slightly open.

"I'd pick you," she murmurs. "If I could marry anyone, I'd still marry you."

He doesn't stir, but when she tucks herself close against his chest, he does snuggle closer, his face against her hair, like he doesn't want to let go of her again.

She hopes he doesn't.

It's not much longer before he wakes up too; she can tell from the way his arms tighten, deliberate, before he tries to get up without waking her. It's sweet, and she lets it go on longer than she really needs to before she rolls onto his chest with a grin.

"I'm awake."

He smiles back, still looking young, sleep-tousled and a little sheepish. "Sorry. You could have gone to breakfast without me."

"I didn't want to."

For a second, he looks thoughtful, and then he threads his hand through her hair and leans up to kiss her, with a slight hesitance, like he's not sure it's still allowed in the morning. Her enthusiastic response is apparently enough to convince him, and they trade a few lazy kisses before he pulls back.

"I wasn't sure if barons kissed their wives good morning," he says, tucking her hair behind her ear with a small smile.

"I have no idea. I didn't marry a baron, I married you."

He grins and kisses her again. "You married me," he agrees. "And I'm hungry. You want to get out of bed and take care of our people?"

"Not really," she says, rolling off him. "But I will."

"It's not like my bed is going anywhere," he tells her, standing and stretching himself. Clarke watches him with interest, enjoying the movement of muscles under his skin. "And you're welcome any time," he adds, with just enough tension in his voice she can't help wrapping her arms around him, resting her cheek against his back.

"Bellamy."

"Yeah?"

She kisses his shoulder blade. "I'm never going back to my bed," she says, because it feels too soon to say she loves him. Even if she thinks she might. He probably wouldn't believe her.

He relaxes, laughs, soft. "Good. I like you in mine."

"Yes," she says, and squeezes him once before she lets go. "This is where I should be."


End file.
